


We've No Recourse At All

by WritingQuill



Series: What's the Story? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, F/F, Femlock, Femslash, First Time, Getting Together, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson is a barista at a local coffee shop, and she sort of pines for one of the regulars, Sherlock, until she finally works up the courage to ask her out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've No Recourse At All

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: characters don't belong to me yadda yadda yadda...

The Coffee Spot was often busy from the autumn onwards, frequented mostly by sleep-deprived Imperial students carrying heavy bags and empty mugs which they usually filled with filter coffee or an odd concoction of flavoured pumps and three shots of espresso. Joan Watson had been working there since her first year at UCL. It was not very close to her campus, but it was five minutes away from her flat, so it was pretty ideal. She also liked to watch the science students buzz about with their calculations and and hypotheses. She herself was in her third year of Medical school, hoping to specialise in trauma surgery, even though her lecturers discouraged students from picking a specialty so early. So, when she wasn’t busy buried in a pile of books and journals, Joan took her place behind the counter as one of three part-time baristas. 

She usually took the later shifts because they worked better with her schedule, which meant that more often than not, Joan was in charge of close. And as a late worker at the cafe, she always got to see the most interesting people come in. There was Bowl Cut Man, Beardy Movie Geek (who every other week wore the same _Escape from New York_ T-shirt that Joan secretly coveted,) and Saxophone Lady. But perhaps the most interesting one of all, and Joan was completely biased about that and was shameless enough to admit it, was Tall, Dark and Mysterious. 

Okay, so she wasn’t mysterious. Her name was Sherlock, and Joan had written it out in her coffee sleeve every night at quarter past six when she came in. Large double-shot Americano, which she actually consumed entirely every time. Sherlock was an Imperial student, though Joan could never figure out her course because she always seemed to be researching something different. Not that Joan noticed or paid attention or anything. 

Except she totally did. 

And Sherlock was beautiful. She was probably around 5’9” and had gorgeous shoulder-length dark brown curly hair that was always in disarray and pulled up in a messy bun. Her eyes were piercing green, and had a depth to them that Joan had never seen before. Her skin was pale and creamy, except on her cheeks, where she would blush from the cold winds outside. And she always wore a pair of skinny jeans, navy blue chukka boots and a loose shirt or T-shirt under her coat. Joan felt a bit creepy observing a patron so intently, but she couldn’t avoid it. Sherlock was hypnotic with her all-knowing eyes and deep voice that absolutely did things to Joan. 

Tonight Joan’s shift started as usual. At half-five, she walked through to the back and put her things in her locker. It was mid-November, so the weather was starting to go a bit crazy again, and it had rained all day long, so Joan threw in her soaked through flannel along with her coat. She clipped the name badge on her T-shirt (not _Escape from New York_ , sadly) and tied up her hair in a messy ponytail, then made her way to the front again, joining Greg behind the bar. 

She punched her code into the register as Greg greeted her. 

‘Hey, champ,’ he said. ‘Saved many lives today?’ he asked, placing a latte on the counter for the customer. Joan snorted. 

‘Only if you count dummies,’ she said, earning a small laugh from Greg. A new customer walked in and it was work as usual. ‘Hi, there, what can I get you?’ she asked Tourist Man. He was wearing a London T-shirt and had a map folded on his right hand, and he studied the men very closely. Joan suppressed a sigh. 

By ten past, Joan was already ready to leave. There had been some kind of exhibition in the V&A, so everyone who attended seemed to flock straight in afterwards, making Joan and Greg very busy for almost half an hour. She gave her last Flock customer her change and leaned back against the counter, catching her breath. Greg was still making the lady’s Iced Mocha, which was always fun to watch because Greg, as a coffee purist, despised cold coffee. Joan preferred tea anyway, though she could admit that cold coffee tasted like shit. Plus it was the middle of November, what was that lady thinking? Joan shrugged it off and filled herself a glass with water from the tap, gulping it down in one go. 

The bells rang and a new customer walked in. It was a quarter past six, so it could only be one person. Joan looked up to find Sherlock shaking some water off her ever-present coat, then running a hand through her messy hair. She seemed annoyed at the rain, and she was pouting, which was incredibly adorable and also insanely hot. Joan swallowed and shifted on her feet by the register, watching Sherlock approach. 

‘Hi, there,’ she said with a smile, trying to even out her voice. She could feel Greg smirking from behind her, and she wanted to kick him. ‘Large double-shot Americano, yes?’ 

Sherlock nodded and handed her the exact change, as always. No proper interaction. Joan sighed in disappointment as she watched Sherlock pick up her drink and take it to her usual table, by the side window. She had a great view of it from the counter, which was a very creepy thing to think about. 

‘So, Jimmy Stewart, you make a move yet?’ Greg asked, leaning against the counter with one arm propped up on the countertop. Joan mock-laughed. 

‘Ha-ha, very funny. I can’t “make a move,” she’s a regular,’ Joan said. ‘Besides, she wouldn’t be interested anyway.’ 

‘Why not? You’re fit and cool, any guy or gal would be lucky to have ya,’ Greg said. Joan laughed and shook her head. 

‘Yeah, right.’ She genuinely thought Greg was crazy. Even if Sherlock _was_ gay or bi, the chances of someone who looked like her liking someone who looked like Joan were slim. Sherlock was a goddess, perfect in every way, sculpted by the Gods. Joan was… ordinary. She was slightly shorter than average, had dirty blonde hair that never seemed to behave, and her nose was a bit too big. She was small, even though she worked out, and she was really nothing much to look at. Greg was insane, Sherlock would never go for her. 

The next hour was very quiet, as per usual, and soon it was the end of Greg’s shift, so they said their quick goodbyes and he left, backpack over one shoulder, carrying his motorcycle helmet on his right hand. Some Grouplove song was playing from the speakers, and Joan busied herself with cleaning up a bit before the next customer showed up. 

It was almost eight now, so Sherlock would be leaving soon, and gosh wasn’t she pathetic? Pining after a random customer who probably didn’t even know she existed. This was Anthea all over again. Except Joan really only admired Anthea from afar because she seemed like this exquisite beauty, and never wanted anything more than that. Sherlock, though. She just seemed so… _interesting_. For some reason, there was a magnetic pulse that attracted Joan to her in confusing ways. She might be incredibly boring or racist or unfunny or have bad taste in music. Joan sighed as she finished organising the paper cups by the register. 

She heard someone clear their throat and looked up to find Sherlock standing on the other side of the counter, looking intently at her. 

‘Oh, sorry!’ Joan exclaimed, startled. ‘Sorry, hi! Can I help you?’ she asked. Sherlock was wearing a light blue button down today with rolled up sleeves. Her hair was loose for once, framing her face like a painting. Joan tried very hard not to stare at her perfect rose lips. 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. ‘Another coffee.’ 

‘Right. Okay, won’t be a minute.’ Sherlock nodded and handed her the money, only it was a fiver instead of exact change, but she didn’t stay for it, so Joan put the change in the tip jar. Then she started making Sherlock’s coffee, on a paper cup even though she was staying in, as she always preferred to drink from a paper cup for some reason. Sherlock wasn’t by the counter when the coffee was ready, so Joan took it to her. 

Sherlock’s table was covered in thick books surrounding her laptop. The books were on molecular chemistry and the pages were covered in chicken-scratch writing in bold red pen. Joan placed the coffee cup next to the laptop. 

‘There you go,’ she said. Sherlock looked at her and nodded. 

‘Thank you,’ she said. Nothing else came, so Joan simply walked away, that ridiculous sinking in her chest deepening. Why did she have to go ahead and pine for just the worst person possible, a regular customer who seemed completely uninterested? She supposed it was for the best anyway, she was still reeling from her break-up with Jamie. 

Jamie had been amazing. Her best friend, her partner in crime. She studied Sociology at UCL and they met at the Fresher’s fair in first year, and had been inseparable ever since. Jamie was tall and at the time had gorgeous long red hair but six months into uni she got a Pixie cut that looked wonderful and made her even more beautiful. But there had always been something about Jamie that was off, like she was uncomfortable in her own skin, and no matter how much Joan prodded her about, she never said anything. Until one day, she and Joan were having lunch at Byron after a study session in the library, and Jamie said she needed to tell Joan something. 

‘What is it?’ Joan had asked, growing concerned about Jamie’s serious expression and tone. 

‘I’m… I’ve been struggling with this for a long time, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do for so long, and I don’t think I’ll truly be happy until I do it,’ Jamie had said, which was very vague, and Joan had no idea where she was going with it. 

‘Do what?’ 

‘I’ve enlisted. With the army,’ Jamie had explained. And Joan’s world crumbled. Not long after that, Jamie officially left the university, and they decided to break up because they were too young for a long distance relationship, especially when one half of it was in the armed forces. Joan had cried and cried after Jamie left, and even Mike trying to comfort her hadn’t worked. 

Now, almost a year later, Joan was still shaken by it. Jamie had been her first proper girlfriend, and the pain was very raw still. But she couldn’t help but feel that her pining after Sherlock had a different shape than just admiration from a distance. If only she had the courage to open herself up to romance again. But she was afraid of getting hurt. 

Joan settled back behind the counter with two hours left before close and not a lot to do. Usually she’d have a book back there, but she had a late class this afternoon and couldn’t pack her backpack properly for work. A few customers said goodbye as they left, and Joan smiled at them. Beardy Movie Geek (who was wearing a really cool _Vertigo_ T-shirt today) knocked on the counter three times as he often did in lieu of a goodbye and left around nine o’clock. 

As the coffee shop emptied out, Joan noticed that Sherlock stayed. Usually she left much earlier, but today she seemed to be particularly focused on whatever it was she was working on, and she seemed unaware of the passing of time. Joan watched and watched, because she was creepy and pathetic, but also because there was no point in cleaning the espresso machine for a third time. 

It was fifteen minutes until close, so Joan figured she should let Sherlock know it was almost time to leave. She walked towards the only occupied table in the coffee shop and lightly tapped Sherlock on the shoulder to get her attention. 

‘Hm, excuse me?’ she asked. Sherlock looked at her, brows furrowed, mouth pursed. Joan gulped. ‘Sorry to bother you, it’s just that it’s fifteen minutes until closing time. You seemed pretty focused there, so I just wanted to let you know…’ she trailed off and scratched the back of her neck. 

Sherlock looked back at her laptop then at Joan again. ‘All right,’ she said, and went back to work. 

Somehow, maybe because she was flustered or because Sherlock had stayed longer than usual and her brain saw it as a sign or because God hated her, Joan couldn’t just end it like this. No, she needed to do it. It was time now, to finally go after it. Greg was right, any girl would be lucky to have her, and she was tired of being afraid and scared and lonely. So she spoke. 

‘Are you hungry?’ Joan asked, loudly, almost screaming, because she couldn’t control the volume of her voice and get through this embarrassing moment all at once. Sherlock looked up again, one eyebrow quirked. ‘I mean. Will you? Be hungry? Later? Because I will, and if you will, maybe we could go eat. Somewhere. Together. Maybe?’ _Oh God make this stop, please_ , Joan thought, trying to figure out the perfect place to bury herself after this. 

But Sherlock didn’t laugh. She didn’t react much at all, except for a small curve on the corner of her mouth. There was a glint in her eyes. 

‘I guess I should probably eat _something_ today,’ Sherlock said, amusement colouring her voice. Joan’s mouth fell open. 

‘Really?’ Joan asked incredulously. 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘When do you get off?’ 

Joan looked at her watch. ‘About half ten. I lock at up at ten, though.’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Fine, then I will wait.’ Then she went back to her work again, and Joan knew a dismissal when she saw one. She walked back to the counter on shaky legs, her fingers trembling as she decided to count the tips of the day. Someone walked in, a late-nighter who looked surprisingly refreshed which meant he was about to pull an all-nighter at the library. 

‘Large triple-shot mocha, please,’ he asked. ‘To take away.’ He had curly brown hair styled upwards like Noah and the Whale. His glasses were comically huge, and Joan wondered if he was going for something specific. As an independent coffee shop barista, she’d seen her fair share of hipsters, but some of them were still surprising in their audacity. He paid for his coffee and Joan went about making it. She hated mochas, the smell of fake chocolate always made her feel a bit queasy, but somehow it was a favourite among students, so she had to make it more often than she liked. 

She handed him his cup and he left with a mumbled thanks. Joan watched him leave, walking briskly through the drizzle to get to the library. Then her watch beeped, signalling close time. She sighed in relief at having something proper to do until her impending… date (?) with Sherlock. Was it a date? She couldn’t be sure.

Joan wiped a few tables that needed wiping, cleaned the chairs, and went in the back to get the mop. She cleaned the floor efficiently and with practiced ease. It was good mindless work that usually took her fifteen minutes. Tonight she chanced a few glances at where Sherlock sat reading an journal in her hands, her laptop and books already packed. 

After she was done, Joan placed the mop back and went to her locker to get her stuff. Her flannel was dry by now, so she put it over her T-shirt, and put on her parka after that. She slung her backpack over a shoulder and walked to the front. 

‘Hm, I’m ready,’ she said, not looking at Sherlock. Joan felt herself blush and chastised her stupid treacherous body. 

Sherlock walked towards her and shot her a quick smile before stepping outside. Joan turned off the lights and followed Sherlock outside, then locked the door. 

‘You clean very efficiently,’ Sherlock said. Startled by the compliment, Joan only managed a smile in response. 

‘What do you feel like eating?’ Joan asked, moving past the awkward moment. Sherlock shrugged. The drizzle was fading now, but there was a brisk atmosphere in the air as the cold wind blew. 

‘You lead the way,’ Sherlock said as she adjusted her messenger bag strap on her shoulder. 

Joan hummed and walked towards the only pub she knew would still be serving food past ten, The Cross Hands. It was probably her favourite pub in this area, full of mismatched furniture and eclectic decor. It didn’t look like a _pub_ , which was what she liked the most, because it felt a lot more like a cosy bar. The owner, Mr Fitzpatrick, a middle-aged Irishman with a perpetual grin and a bushy red beard, liked her and always welcomed her happily when she walked in tired after a long shift or study session, looking for a hot meal. 

When the entered the pub, Sherlock looked around, seemingly impressed, and Jon figured she’d never been here before. There were quite a lot of people still having a good time, talking and laughing, sharing stories, enjoying pints of lager. On the big screen TV in the corner, Film4 was on, but without sound, only subtitles. They were screening _The Breakfast Club_ tonight, which was one of Joan’s favourite films, but she was too intent on getting to know Sherlock better to really care about the movie. 

They got a table for four by the window and put their bags and coats over the extra chairs, sitting down across from each other on the seats closer to the door. There were menus already on the table, but Joan knew was she was getting — the famous mushroom chicken pie, her usual, and also the ultimate comfort food. 

Sherlock wasn’t looking at the menu. 

‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ Joan asked. 

‘I can’t be bothered choosing, I’ll just have whatever you order,’ she said nonchalantly. Joan was slightly taken aback and nodded anyway. She got up to head to the bar. 

‘Anything to drink?’ she asked. 

‘Tap water is fine.’ 

Joan walked to the bar and leaned against the counter until Mr Fitzpatrick appeared. He smiled at the sight of her and approached happily. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt which looked almost comical against his pale skin. 

‘Joanie!’ he exclaimed. ‘Hard day at the coal mines?’ 

She chuckled. ‘As always. I’m actually here with a friend,’ Joan said, for some reason. 

‘Wonderful! And what will you two have this fine evening?’ he asked, taking out a pad and pencil. Joan smiled fondly at this eccentric Santa Claus of a man. 

‘Two of my usuals, with a pint of Stella and a tap water,’ she said. 

‘Good, good. They’ll be right out,’ he said, and Joan smiled again at him, taking out her wallet to pay. She had offered to pay for Sherlock’s food on the way here since she had invited her to dinner. Sherlock had denied at first, but Joan insisted, which was probably very silly of her, since as a working student, she shouldn’t be going around buying other people’s meals. But this felt like a solid move, and so she paid for their food and her own drink, and went back to their table carrying her pint. 

‘Thank you for dinner, you didn’t have to pay,’ Sherlock said when Joan sat down. Joan waved a hand. 

‘It’s okay, I invited you, remember? Stop thanking me already!’ she smiled. Sherlock smiled as well. Perfect! Joan figured this would be the perfect time to get started on Plan Getting-to-Know-Sherlock-Better. ‘Anyway, you seemed pretty busy back at the coffee house. What are you studying?’ 

Sherlock leaned back against her chair and played with a strand of hair between her fingers. ‘My course at uni is Chemistry, but I like to study all scientific fields. Right now I am working on a paper regarding molecular chemistry in forensic analysis.’ 

Joan widened her eyes. ‘Wow, that sounds fascinating! Are you interested in forensics?’ 

‘Yes. I find the science of crime really interesting, and it baffles me sometimes how incompetent forensic analysts at the Scotland Yard can be. I’ve been reading through some old case files and the work there is sloppy at best.’ 

Joan chuckled. ‘So is that what you want to focus on after you finish your undergraduate degree?’ 

‘Don’t know yet. Not all of us have a clear career path set out during first year, doctor,’ Sherlock said with a mischievous grin. Joan gasped. How on Earth did she know about her degree? All this time, had Sherlock been watching Joan as closely as Joan had been watching Sherlock. 

‘How…?’ Joan started to ask, but Sherlock beat her to it. 

‘You have a Caduceus tattoo on your forearm and sometimes you wear UCL T-shirts and sweatshirts. Simple deduction. Well, conjecture, really.’ 

Joan looked at her forearm, hidden underneath her flannel shirt, and then back up at Sherlock, who apparently not only noticed her tattoo (and maybe even deduced the others?) but also paid attention to and remembered the clothes she wore. Joan should probably have found it creepy, but she couldn’t, not when Sherlock was sitting there with that smug smile on her lips, watching her to intently. 

‘That was… amazing!’ Joan said, finally. Because it had been, really, really amazing. Piecing tiny puzzles together from so little. Joan wondered if she could do more. ‘Extraordinary!’ 

‘You really think so?’ Sherlock asked, the smug veneer giving way to insecurity. Joan felt a rush of protectiveness and was quick to smile warmly. 

‘Yes, I really do. You are extraordinary,’ she said, because why not. Why hold anything back, she was here anyway. 

She was graced with what she could tell was a rare smile from Sherlock. Warm and inviting, but also slightly awkward, as if it didn’t have a chance to come out often. They sat there, smiling at each other, world forgotten, for a few moments, until the spell was broken by Mr Fitzpatrick with their food. Joan had even forgotten how hungry she was until the pie was placed in front of her. 

‘Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick,’ she said. 

‘Enjoy your food, girls,’ he said with a wink towards Joan, who glared at him as he walked away. Sherlock watched the interaction with amusement, but said nothing. 

They chatted as they ate, about university and what they were studying. Sherlock asked to hear more about her anatomy courses, so Joan told her about some of the more gritty stuff as she sipped her beer. Soon their plates were clean and their bellies full. Joan felt pleasantly warm all over, and she was happy to notice the rain outside had stopped. She was starting to feel tired, but she was enjoying herself and didn’t want to part from Sherlock just yet. 

‘This was nice,’ she said after a moment of silence. Sherlock hummed in agreement. 

‘Yes. I rarely enjoy the company of others, but you seem to be an exception.’ 

Again, Joan’s eyes widened in surprise. Sherlock was really blunt, saying exactly what she was thinking, and it was amazing. She was amazing. 

‘Thanks?’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Yes. Would you like to do this again sometime?’ 

‘Again?’ 

Sherlock nodded. 

‘That… that would be nice. I would like that,’ Joan said. ‘I have tomorrow off, so I can meet you at the coffee house around eight?’ 

‘Sounds good,’ Sherlock said. With the date (was it a date? dinner between friends? were they friends? how could she know?) set, they started to gather their bags and coats to leave. Joan had drained her pint and Sherlock took one last sip of her mostly untouched glass of water, and they left. 

‘I’m that way,’ Joan said, pointing at the right when they stepped out of the pub. Sherlock gave her a small smile. 

‘I’m this way,’ she said, pointing at the opposite direction. This was it, then. But they had plans for tomorrow, and Joan was both excited and incredibly nervous. 

‘Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said, charming up her best smile. Sherlock nodded. 

‘Yes. And it’s my treat,’ Sherlock added, before walking away. Joan stood there, sort of stunned and amazed, watching Sherlock leave until she turned a corner. Then she broke out of her reverie and made her own way home, groaning slightly when she realised it was past midnight and she had an early class tomorrow. 

 

After class, Joan ran home to shower and change before her… dinner? date? rendezvous? with Sherlock. 

Her flatmate Billie Murray was watching TV when she burst through the door, panting from all the rushing about. She looked up from her spot on the sofa and quirked an eyebrow.

‘What happened?’ she asked, wide-eyed. Joan took a few breaths before being able to answer. 

‘Have… to… get… ready,’ she said, in between breaths. Billie shook her head. 

‘Oh my god are you seriously this worked up about this almost-potential-date thing? Come on, Watson, you’re better than this,’ she said. Billie was an exquisitely blunt creature, incredibly deadpan (‘what did everyone expect me to turn out to be when my parents named me after Bill fucking Murray?’ she always said) and full of confidence. She was comfortably bisexual, and was always ready to give both wanted and unwanted romantic advice to Joan. She had been incredibly helpful in Joan’s road to recovery after Jamie, but she thought this whole thing with Sherlock was ridiculous. 

‘I really like her, okay? This might be something special,’ Joan said, armed with her arguments and defensive tone, ready to brawl. But Billie wasn’t up for it, instead she just turned back to the telly and shrugged. 

‘Fine, fine. Let me know when you’re out of the shower so I can help you get ready. I’m not letting you leave this flat wearing that hideous oatmeal jumper for this date,’ Billie said. Joan snorted and walked to her room. 

She took a longer shower than usual, making herself spotless — she even shaved and oft-unshaved bits, just to be sure. She brushed her teeth and flossed obsessively. She argued with herself over nail polish, but decided to skip it, since she was just going to bite it off probably. She dried her hair and tried to style it in some way, but it always fell a bit lopsided, so she just left it as it was. By the time she was ready to pick what to wear, it was already a quarter past six. 

‘Murray!’ she called from her place in front of the mirror. She was judging herself pretty intensely, looking at all her little flaws, deciding that this was a waste of time, she should just cancel, but how could she cancel, she didn’t have Sherlock’s number? Maybe she should call the coffee house and—

‘Stop obsessing!’ exclaimed Billie when she walked in the room. She turned Joan towards herself by the shoulders and shook her. ‘You are a hot little piece and you are getting some tonight, okay!’ 

‘No, I’m—’

‘Yes, you are! Look at that tiny waist, look at those symmetrical features, look at that perky nose, you’ve even got nice boobs. Dude, you are going to be fine, just don’t obsess. Be cool, you can be cool when you want to. Be it, now,’ Billie said. ‘And let’s find you something to wear.’ 

Joan took a deep breath and nodded. In and out. In and out. Okay. This was easy, she could do this. 

Billie pulled out a nice pair of skinny jeans and laid them out on the bed. ‘This is the foundation upon which we build this outfit, okay?’ 

‘Okay. So, jeans. T-shirt?’ 

Billie sighed. ‘Or a blouse? Do you have a blouse?’ she rummaged through Joan’s clothes, trying to find that infamous blouse. Which didn’t exist, because Joan didn’t have a blouse. She had shirts and T-shirts and vests, but no blouses. ‘Ugh, nothing. Okay. Oh, this is cute!’ she pulled out a V-neck vest with some lacy things on the neckline. It was salmon-coloured and Joan had never worn it. But Billie laid it out on top of the jeans. ‘This could work.’ 

‘Just the vest? Won’t I be too, I don’t know, naked?’ 

‘You can wear a cardigan over it! See, this one,’ she said, pulling out a soft brown cable-knit cardigan that Joan loved but didn’t wear too often. ‘You put that on top, and it’s a cute little outfit that screams you but it’s less drabby.’

‘Glad you think I’m drabby…’ 

‘I don’t think _you’re_ drabby, only that you can dress drabby sometimes. Doesn’t matter. Shoes! What do you have?’ 

‘A couple of Converse, those flats that hurt my toes and those heels I wore for my brother’s engagement party,’ Joan said. ‘But I hate them.’ 

‘A-ha!’ said Billie, pulling out a pair of wing tip oxfords from the back of her closet. They were actually really cute, and Joan was surprised she owned them. 

‘I had no idea I had those…’ 

‘You live and you learn, eh? Now put those on,’ she gestured at the clothes, ‘then a little eyeliner, some lipgloss and bam! Hottie with a body! Ready to drop knickers all around.’ 

Joan snorted a laugh. ‘You are incorrigible.’ 

Billie stuck her tongue out as she left the room. 

By seven, she was ready. She even picked out her cute underwear set (the only one that matched, pale blue with lace) to boost her confidence. Her outfit was cute, her shoes were adorable, and even her hair had decided to co-operate. It wasn’t even raining outside! She walked in the living room and twirled, at which Billie catcalled like the perfect git she was. 

‘You clean up real good, kid,’ she said. Joan laughed and took a bow. 

‘Why, thank you. I feel a lot better about this, actually. Just dinner, no pressure.’ 

‘Exactly! You’ll do fine. And if you’re not back by midnight, I’ll assume you score big time.’ 

Joan nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you if by some miracle I don’t come home.’ 

Billie shrugged. ‘Hey, you never know. This might actually be a date. You might actually end up doing it. It might be the best night of your life. And if all else fails, _St Elmo’s Fire_ is on Netflix, and I’ve got a carton of Ben  & Jerry’s waiting in the freezer.’ 

‘Ha-ha sounds good. Hopefully the night _won’t_ end with me professing my undying love for Andrew McCarthy while gorging myself with ice cream though.’ 

That made Billie laugh. ‘You’re a terrible lesbians, with all those crushes in actors from the 80s.’ 

‘Shush with you,’ Joan said, as she put on her parka and threw her bag across her shoulder. ‘I’ll text you later!’ 

‘Good luck, friend!’ 

Joan walked out of the flat and made her way to the coffee house. She was a bit early, but she took the longer way there to psych herself up. It wasn’t a big deal. Like she said, just a dinner between friends. Yeah, she dressed up, but only because she had time, and because she wanted to feel pretty. Besides, Sherlock probably wouldn’t even notice anyway. 

After a going around the same block a few times, lip syncing the songs from her iPod, Joan decided it was time to get to the coffee house. She walked in five minutes to eight, and spotted Sherlock on her usual table. Greg was behind the bar and shot her questioning look. Joan simply shrugged and nodded at Sherlock with her head, at which Greg gave her two thumbs up, a huge smile on his lips. 

Joan was smiling as well as she approached the table. Only a notebook and book tonight, as Sherlock took quick notes. Her cup of coffee was empty. 

‘Hey,’ she said, making Sherlock turn her head. 

‘You’re early,’ Sherlock commented matter-of-factly. 

‘Is that okay?’ Joan asked. 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Sure, we might as well just head off then,’ she said, closing her materials and sliding them into her messenger bag. When she stood up to put on her coat, Joan noticed she was wearing a lovely pair of dark wash skinny jeans that hugged her legs in all the right places, and a well-fitted aubergine shirt with the collar forming a delectable V. Her hair was more nicely combed than usual, parted on one side instead of wherever it fell in the morning, and she was wearing a necklace. Joan suddenly blushed at the notion that Sherlock had _dressed up_ for her, because this was a _thing_. She was nervous, but the butterflies in her stomach also spoke of utter excitement. 

‘Where are we going?’ Joan asked after Sherlock put on her coat and they slipped out of the cafe. Sherlock guided them as they walked through the streets. 

‘Little Italian place nearby. I know the owner,’ she said, simply. Mysteriously. 

‘A friend, or…?’ 

‘I helped clear his name when he was accused of murder by proving he was actually in the other side of town committing burglary at the same time,’ Sherlock explained, only making Joan more confused. But this was just Sherlock, and it was fantastic. 

‘Wow, that’s incredible!’ 

A twenty-minute walk later found them in Angelo’s, a small neighbourhood Italian restaurant that seeped authenticity. The linens were eggshell white and there were empty wine bottles holding lit candles in every table. Rustic artwork decorated the walls, and soft Italian music played over the speakers. A peppy waiter with olive skin and dark hair welcomed them and showed them to a cosy table by the window. Joan sat with her back to the window while Sherlock sat at the adjacent seat. Their hands were almost touching. 

Then a large, exuberant man approached their table. Angelo had a thick black moustache and a wide grin, and kept saying how much he loved Sherlock, how wonderful she was, and how she had saved his life. Joan smiled at the uncomfortable expression in Sherlock’s face, and soon they had ordered their meals — spaghetti carbonara for Sherlock, tortellini for Joan, and a bottle of red for the table. 

‘This is lovely,’ said Joan once Angelo had left. Sherlock smiled that soft smile of hers that sent shivers down Joan’s spine. 

‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said. ‘The food’s good.’ 

They lapsed into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Joan wondered if she could ask personal questions. She wanted to get to know Sherlock better than on a what-degree-you’re-pursuing level. She played with the hem of the tablecloth and cleared her throat. 

‘So… Anyone in your life? I mean… Boyfriend, girlfriend?’ she asked, hopefully not loud like last time she tried asking Sherlock a random question. But Sherlock seemed startled nonetheless. 

‘Boyfriends… Not really my area,’ she said. ‘But I don’t have a girlfriend either,’ she added. 

‘Oh, good. I mean. We’re both… unattached. So, yeah, good.’ _God, you’re the worst_ , she thought, _you are going to live alone with twenty cats and die and be eaten by your twenty cats you idiot_. 

Sherlock was looking smug again. It was an annoyingly good look on her, though Joan put that on practice more than anything else. Sherlock seemed like the kind of person who had a right to be smug. 

‘Indeed,’ Sherlock said. ‘No boyfriends for you either?’ 

Joan snorted. ‘No, definitely not _my_ area.’ She debated whether or not to tell Sherlock about Jamie, but that was far too serious for a first date, if this even was a first date, so she said nothing. ‘So, hm. How did you find out about this place, anyway?’ 

And Sherlock told her about how her first year residence halls were close by and she would come in often because she couldn’t (and still can’t) cook, then they began telling each other halls flatmates horror stories, which turned into worst flatmate contests, which had them laughing all through their plates of scrumptious food and a bottle of fantastically smooth wine. Joan couldn’t remember having had this much fun on a date ever, it just felt so easy talking with Sherlock, so effortless. Their fingers brushed over the table, and the legs were tangled under it, and none of them cared, because the wine was so sweet and the conversation was so seamless and the night was just too beautiful. 

After a shared tiramisu over two espressos, Sherlock paid the bill, and they left, saying their goodbyes to Angelo, who told them to come again any time. They began walking the same direction, and after a few minutes, Joan realised she didn’t know where they were going. 

‘So, we’re going…’ 

‘To my flat. Yes. If that’s… okay?’ Sherlock said, uncertain. Joan smiled at that, and brushed their fingers together. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she could almost hear it. Her knees were slightly wobbly, but she was in the clouds.

Sherlock’s flat was not too far, only a few blocks over, and she let them in, opening the door with ease, putting a finger over her lips to keep quiet. She mouthed “landlady” and pointed at the door marked “221A” on the ground floor, and Joan nodded. They quietly made their way up the steps to the flat, and Sherlock unlocked yet another door. 

The flat was perhaps even more _Sherlock_ than Joan could have ever imagined. Each wall had a different wallpaper, and every horizontal surface was covered in papers and books. There was a battered leather sofa against one wall, and two mismatched armchairs by the fireplace. A stuffed bison head wearing headphones was hanging between the two large windows over the street, and the kitchen was a disaster, like something out of _Re-Animator_. 

It was cluttered and messy and all over the placed, and it was so Sherlock that Joan instantly loved it. 

‘Nice place,’ Joan said, smiling genuinely at Sherlock who seemed to blush. 

‘A drink?’ Sherlock offered. ‘I don’t have much, only a bottle of brandy I stole from my brother’s office, and some old orange juice.’ 

‘I’ve never had brandy before,’ Joan said. Sherlock smirked. 

‘It’s terrible, but Mycroft keeps making me go see him, so I keep stealing it. Let’s drink it just to spite him’ she said, making Joan laugh. 

Sherlock poured them both two fingers of brandy on jam jars and they settled on the sofa, coats and shoes off, enjoying each other’s presence. Sherlock was looking at Joan as Joan looked everywhere else, taking in this chaos of a living space. And yet it seemed like the definition of organised chaos, because even the little clutters seemed to have a system, only it was probably a system only Sherlock could understand. 

Joan then looked back at Sherlock, to find her still staring. ‘Like what you see?’ she asked in an uncharacteristic act of bravery fuelled by lots of wine and two sips of brandy (it really was terrible.)

Sherlock hummed. ‘I do,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘I really do.’ 

Joan felt herself blush as she placed her glass on the floor by the sofa. Sherlock did the same and inched closer and closer. Joan could feel the air around them thickening as tension build. She stared at Sherlock’s plump lips, that cupid’s bow asking to be nibbled, and god had she ever wanted anything this much in her life? 

They simultaneously closed the distance between them, lips clashing together. They teased each other, nipping on lips, tongues meeting feverishly and languidly, savouring each moment. Sherlock tasted of red wine and mint, somehow, and her lips were pliable and soft, and oh so warm. Joan loft herself in them, pulling Sherlock closer by the waist with one hand, cupping her cheek with the other. Sherlock’s own hands were roaming freely on Joan’s back, one even venturing further down to cup her bottom and bring them even closer. Their chests touched. Joan and Sherlock gasped in unison at the friction. 

Their kisses were turning frantic by the minute. More passionate than languid, heady and intoxicating as their breaths mingled. Sherlock nibbled on Joan’s lips, and Joan broke loose to press open-mouthed kisses down that gloriously creamy neck of Sherlock’s, and up her exquisite jawline to take her earlobe, which made Sherlock let out a delicious moan. 

Her hands found Sherlock’s shirt and began unbuttoning it, as Sherlock’s down did with her cardigan, and soon they were pushed away, Joan left only in her vest and Sherlock in a simple black T-shirt bra that made her breasts look phenomenal. Joan wanted to kiss them. She was about to unclasp the back, but Sherlock stopped her. 

‘You first,’ she said, lifting the vest over Joan’s head and throwing it aside. Sherlock stared down at her chest, and she was a sight to behold. Hair in disarray, lips bright red, chest flushed. Joan unclasped her bra with one hand and, without taking her eyes off Sherlock’s face, threw it away with her vest. She was bare now, from the waist up, revelling in the pure adoration in Sherlock’s eyes. 

‘Your turn,’ she said, her voice husky to her own ears. She watched as Sherlock shivered and moved to remove her own bra in one swift move, revealing her beautiful breasts, creamy and perky, nipples already erect. Joan licked her lips. ‘Bedroom,’ she said. Sherlock nodded. 

They got up together, and their lips met again, kissing firmly and passionately. Joan played with Sherlock’s nipples with her fingers, getting more delicious sounds from her throat, and Sherlock worked to remove their jeans. 

When they crashed onto bed, they were only in their knickers, and Joan climbed over Sherlock, appreciating the view from above of all that pale skin in all its glory. They were illuminated only by the streetlamp outside, and they cast an orange glow over the bed. Sherlock was beautiful, firm pale skin, long legs that went for miles, beautiful in every way. Joan kneed between Sherlock’s legs and slid her knickers off slowly. She was perfectly but not overly trimmed, and her folds were dark pink, and already soaking wet. Joan could feel herself wet as well, and took off her own underwear after throwing away Sherlock’s, leaving them both naked, writhing together again as they resumed their kissing, which only intensified by the second. 

Sherlock moved downwards to press her mouth on Joan’s breast, sucking and nipping and licking it until Joan was seeing starts, moaning so loudly she knew she was waking up the entire street. With a free hand Sherlock played with Joan’s other breast, pinching her nipple, sending jolts of electricity right down to Joan’s very core. 

Then she went further down, all the way between Joan’s legs, and pressed kisses and licked her inner thighs, teasing her endlessly, gloriously. Then Sherlock kissed her, and sucked and licked and kissed again, pressing one finger inside as she found that perfect spot that always made Joan scream. 

‘Oh… oh… right there, right there, Sherlock, oh my god,’ Joan moaned as Sherlock sucked her and curled her fingers inside her at the same time, cause her to reach tipping point, and with another suck and another curl, she was coming, loudly and powerfully, and Sherlock rode it out with her, licking and kissing her until her she got her breath back. ‘Jesus…’ Joan moaned. ‘Come here, come here,’ she pulled Sherlock upwards, and caught her lips in a searing kiss that tasted more like herself than wine now. It was filthy and delicious, and in between kisses, Joan moved her fingers between Sherlock’s legs and rub circles, then inside, then rub circles again. Sherlock panted against her mouth, her moans were low-pitched as they did _things_ to Joan that made her want to go at it again and again. She turned herself around so that she was facing Sherlock’s legs and sat on her chest as she brought herself down to start kissing Sherlock as she did with her, except she sucked more, and pushed two fingers inside her. God, Sherlock was so wet and slick, she felt so good against her lips, her soft pubic hair ticking her chin as she pressed open-mouthed kisses on Sherlock’s folds. 

Sherlock herself was not idle as she moaned and groaned. She began kissing Joan again, and massaging her folds with her fingers, and they exchanged pleasures and moans, and for the second time that night, Joan came, followed closely by Sherlock, who cried her name loudly, and that was the most amazing sound Joan had ever heard. 

Later, they lay spent, arms and legs tangled as they embraced and kissed softly, eyes heavy with sleep. Then Sherlock lay her head on Joan’s chest and threw an arm around her waist. Joan felt like she was being hugged by an octopus, and it was right where she wanted to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first full-on femslash, so let me know what you think and if I should write more. 
> 
> As always, you can reach me on my [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com) with any questions, comments or prompts maybe and I'll do my best to reply. 
> 
> Cheers x
> 
> P.S. title is from "The Past and Pending" by The Shins


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